“No. Mrs. Henry did it.”
“What the hell’s wrong with him. That’s part of our agreement.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Have you spoken to him?”
“I called you first.”
“When you talk to him, tell him to call me right away. That’s all. I’ll deal with him. I don’t want to drag you into this.”
“What if my stuff doesn’t show up?”
“Your father will take care of it,” she said.
According to all reports—except my own—by marrying Dr. Frankle, my mother had done well for herself. On the other hand, my father seemed to have taken a small financial slide. Even though Dr. F. could more than cover the world with money, my father still sent my mother a check every month, supposedly for me.
“Did they leave you lunch?” my mother asked.
“I’ve been invited out.”
“Well, have fun. I’ll talk to you Saturday morning before my hair appointment. If you need anything just call.” I could hear air rushing through the sprockets of the Lifecycle.
My father answered his own phone at the office. “Hi ya, sport. Get in okay?”
“My suitcase is temporarily dislocated.”
“Happens all the time.”
“Mom wants you to call her.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” I said, lying.
“Well, I gotta get to work,” he said. “There should be something there for lunch if you’re hungry.”
“I’m invited to the Henrys’.”
“Oh, that’s good. Well, run along. Don’t keep people waiting. And don’t forget, Cindy’s making dinner tonight.”
“Great.”
Every year Cindy made dinner my first night in town. “A real dinner,” she called it: sitting down, plates, glasses, a meatlike item, strange salad—one year with flower petals in it—doctored brown rice, and herbal iced tea. After that, for the rest of the summer, eating was pretty much something I took care of at the Henrys’, where they seemed to have a firmer grasp of what was food and what was indigenous vegetation, animal habitat, something to be seen, perhaps cut and put in a vase, but certainly not eaten. Sometimes, I’d ride to the grocery store with Mrs. and buy real food, making sure to get enough for my father and Cindy, who ultimately ate more crap than anyone.
Cindy was ten years younger than my dad, and all they’d talked about when they bought this place was how great it was for kids. For these five years, I’d felt the burden of making that seem true.
“He shops,” I once overheard Cindy tell someone. “And he’s such a pleasure to have around.”
A pleasure because I was hardly around. Plus, I was household-oriented. I liked things clean and neat. I found comfort in order. I was also used to being around people I didn’t know, living with people I wasn’t related to. I kept my own secrets. I’d taught myself to be a little less than human. I’d taught myself to be a person whom people like to have around, half boy, half butler: half, just half—no one wanted the whole thing, that was one of the tricks, if you wanna call it that.
I pulled the box of chocolate I’d brought for Mrs. H. out of my carry-on. I’d picked liquor-filled, thinking it was safer than milk chocolate in terms of keeping it from Henry and baby June. Liquor-filled tasted so foul that only an adult would eat it. I washed my hands and face and set out for the Henrys’.
Lunch was like something out of a commercial or a dream, although I suppose there was nothing unusual about it. Baloney-and-cheese sandwiches on white bread—mayo on one side, mustard on the other, and pale pink meat and yellow cheese in the middle. Heaven. In Dr. Frankle’s house the only baloney was verbal, and in my father’s the only meat was a soy-based pseudohamburger mix called bean-burger.
“Chips?” Mrs. Henry asked.
“Yes, please.” Real chips, not extra crispy, gourmet deep-bake-fried, slightly, lightly not salted. Normal American chips out of a big old bag-o’-chips. I was glowing. Orange drink. Not orange juice, but drink. It may as well have been a birthday party. Henry didn’t notice, he didn’t care, he didn’t appreciate anything.
Mrs. H. topped off my glass. My tongue would be orange all day; if I sucked on it hard, I’d be able to pull out little flashes of flavor for hours to come.
“I’m so glad to be here,” I said, meaning it completely.
“We’ve missed you,” Mrs. said.
“I haven’t,” Henry said. “I’ve been busy.”
“Oh, Henry, you sit in the house, whining all the time, ‘I’m bored. There’s nothing to do.’”